Spilt Milk

My Grandma Polly (the most courageous person I've ever known) had a favourite saying:

"Don't cry over spilt milk."

In her apartment I discovered the world of play-doh and spilled lots of apple juice on tablecloths that were "going to be washed today anyways". I still associate the word 'thirsty' with juice. And messes with "no big deal".

So I make things. Lots of them. What's the worst that can happen? There's gold in every mess I ever made. 

A funny thing happens when you make things all the time (and you don't care about the mess).

You realize you can do anything.

Everything was made up by someone somewhere. You can unmake it. Or remake it. All you need is imagination.

And guts.

Because, inevitably, doubts get in the way.

Reasons, fears, worries, all concerned with a point in the future that is not within our grasp. And all great at killing creativity. 

This is what Grandma would say to that:

"Cross that bridge when you get there."

Because why would we worry twice.

This is my daily practice now: surrender, surrender, surrender.

And keep making things.

...

Grandma Polly would have been 100 years old today, 19th of May 2018. I still miss her soft "Hello?" when she answered the phone.